


Family Values

by Nyssa



Series: Family [2]
Category: The Godfather (1972 1974 1990)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hospital scene in the first movie, Tom and Michael go to the mattresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Values

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains two uses of a derogatory, but historically accurate, term for Japanese people. It also contains _incest_ , if one defines sex between adopted siblings as incest.

I haul him down the steps as gently as I can, away from the milling cops and into the car, whispering to him to mind his head as we climb in. He collapses against the leather seat and I slam the door, shutting him in with us, where he's safe.

"Jesus, Mike, what happened?" Clemenza turns around in the front seat and stares. "Did that bastard cop --"

"I think he broke my jaw." My brother's voice sounds dazed, almost dreamy. In the light from a street lamp I see him raise a hand slowly to his face. "It feels -- loose."

"Rocco," I say, "for God's sake get us out of here, will ya?" Rocco obeys instantly, gunning the engine and pulling us, tires squealing, out into the street. He's a good guy.

"What the hell happened to the guys I sent with ya?" Clemenza demands. "Was you all alone back there?"

Michael turns his face away. "I shook 'em off. I didn't want anybody with me."

"Shook 'em off? Kid, you gotta be more careful. If --"

"Pete, leave him alone for now, all right? Can't you see he doesn't feel like talking?"

Clemenza sighs, shaking his head. "Okay, okay." As he turns away from us, I hear him mutter, "Sonny ain't exactly gonna be overjoyed about all this."

Mike's head droops against my shoulder, and I drape an arm comfortingly around him. It's a reflex. I can't see him well in the dark car, but I can imagine how his face looks. I feel a hot rush of anger, and I clamp down on it. Somebody has to think straight in this mess, and I can't see Sonny doing it.

"Tom --"

"Mike, don't talk, okay? Don't strain yourself, just rest." The truth is, I can hardly stand to hear him. He sounds like he's lost some teeth.

He ignores my advice. "He still looks so bad." It takes me a second to realize he's talking about Pop. "All those tubes and things. I'm not sure he even knew me."

I sigh. "I know. But the docs say he's gonna pull through. We just have to believe they know what they're talking about, that's all."

"Five shots." His tongue trips awkwardly over the s's. "I've never seen a man live that had been hit five times."

I sit up straight and look him in the eye. "Look, he's in a hospital, he's not laying on some goddamn Jap beach with goddamn flies crawling over him. He's got the best care money can buy, and if there's a tougher son of a bitch in this world I hope I never meet him. And Mama's lighting so many candles for him they're gonna be rationing wax next year." I take a deep breath and let my voice soften. "So think positive, or if you can't think positive, at least shut up like I told you to."

I can hear Pete and Rocco laughing softly from the front seat. Mike's smiling himself, as best he can with the unswollen side of his mouth. He says quietly "Yes sir," and settles his head back on my shoulder.

I close my eyes and listen to his pained breathing. If I wasn't wearing a damn overcoat, I could feel his breath through my shirt, on my skin.

I haven't been this close to him, for this long, in years. I met Theresa back in 1939, when he was still in college, and married her a few months later. We moved into our own house on the mall, and for a while I only saw Mike when he was home on holidays. Never once during that time was I alone with him; I made sure of that. And he accepted it, never asking questions, never dropping hints, never touching me beyond what you can always get away with in a Sicilian household -- warm hugs and kisses on the cheek being standard procedure between brothers. Otherwise, I managed to keep my hands strictly to myself and was proud of it. I stayed away from other guys, too. I thought Theresa had cured me, except for the dreams.

Then came Pearl Harbor, and the next thing we knew, Michael had joined up without even telling anybody. The old man was mad as hell, and we were all scared to death that he'd never come home. But in that way, we were no different from ninety percent of the families in the country. He wrote me letters, telling me all about his buddies, his girls, the beauty of the islands and the sea. He never talked about the battles, the Japs, the men who died all around him. You'd have thought he was on a fancy world cruise for three years. But of course, there were also plenty of things I could have written him about that I didn't, things to do with the Family and the business. I knew he didn't want to hear them.

By the time he got wounded -- nothing too serious, but enough to get him sent home -- the war was almost over, at least in Europe. He came home for a few days after he got out of the hospital in San Francisco, but then took off again, back to New Hampshire where his college sweetheart was waiting for him. I didn't meet Kay until Connie's wedding a few months ago. She seems like a nice girl, although I'm not sure any girl's really nice enough for him.

We round a corner too fast and he lets out a little gasp as it jolts him.

Okay, that's it. "Pete, are we close to any of the places you guys picked out for Sonny yesterday?"

Clemenza glances back at me. "Yeah, not far. A lot closer than we are to the mall, that's for sure."

"Then that's where we're going, to whichever joint is the nearest. Mike needs to rest."

Michael pulls away from me and sits up straight. "Tom, I'm okay, I'm not --"

"Will you shut up? Rocco, stop at the first phone booth you see and I'll call Sonny and let him know we won't be back till morning."

"Let's see if we can find a drugstore, too, huh?" Clemenza suggests. "I bet some ice would feel good on that face of yours, wouldn't it, kid?"

"I don't need --"

"Take the swellin' down," Rocco concurs with a nod.

"And we can get some sandwiches if the lunch counter's still open." I hear Clemenza's plump hands rubbing together in anticipation. "And if it ain't," -- he laughs and punches Rocco in the arm -- "we'll open it."

Mike starts to say something else; I hear his indrawn breath. But he stops, and his lips press together. He turns his head and stares out the window, and in the sudden harsh light of a streetlamp, I notice abruptly how much older my little brother looks.

 

*****

 

The place we wind up at is kind of a dump, but that's okay; I wasn't expecting the Ritz Savoy. It's a cramped two-room apartment on the fourth floor of a rundown tenement, but it has working heat and Clemenza's already had the mattresses delivered. Four mattresses, two in each room. I breathe a little easier when I see there's one for each of us.

"You two in the back," Clemenza directs, like it's his show. Well, it is, for now. "Me and Rocco'll sleep out here. We're the ones with the hardware." He shrugs out of his coat and lays his gun down on a rickety little table. "I don't think we'll have no company, but just in case, ya know?"

Obediently, Mike and I retire to the bedroom.

I'm ready to sleep. It's been a long day; a long few days, in fact. I've been consoling Mama and Connie, who are both frantic, of course; trying to look after Fredo, who's been practically catatonic since the shooting; and worrying myself sick over the old man. Not to mention just doing my job, which at present consists mostly of trying to talk Sonny out of declaring full-scale war on Sollozzo, the Tattaglias, and anyone who gets in his way. My throat's sore from arguing with him. What the hell kind of _consigliere_ am I if my "don" won't listen to a word I say?

And now Michael, always the quietest member of the family, always the one who could be counted on not to get into trouble, gets his face caved in by an ape wearing a police captain's uniform. Well, at least he's still the only brother I've never had to bail out of jail.

The narrow windows are covered with sheets, courtesy of Clemenza and his boys, no doubt, and it's darker than hell in here. I grope impatiently along the wall for a switch, and finally succeed in flooding the room with low-watt light from an overhead bulb. Mike lowers himself with a sigh onto one of the mattresses, pressing the ice pack we bought at the all-night drugstore to his jaw. He glances up, meeting my eyes, and says with a tired smile, "Alone at last, my love."

His flippancy irritates me. I can't see anything funny about any of this.

I cover the distance between us in two strides and kneel down in front of him. "Let me look at that," I say, and take the ice pack from his hands.

"What, you're a doctor now?" he retorts, but he offers no resistance as I turn his head to the side and probe as gently as I can at the ugly swelling. His skin is cold from the ice, but I feel it warming under my fingers. Then I touch his jaw line and hear his breath hiss suddenly between clenched teeth.

I sigh and sit back on the other mattress. "I hope you weren't planning on cracking any walnuts in the immediate future."

He picks up the ice pack and applies it once again to his face. "Nope, I'll stick to jawbreakers."

I stand up and lay a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Let's get some sleep. Maybe you'll feel better in the morning."

I strip down to my underwear, not without considerable self-consciousness, as I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. The blood rises to my face, and my fingers fumble clumsily with buttons and zippers. But I can't stand to sleep in my clothes.

Just as I'm sliding under the worn blankets he asks, "You have a handkerchief, Tom? My nose is running like a son of a bitch."

I gesture toward the pile of discarded clothing on the floor between us. "In my pants pocket."

He sets the ice pack aside and leans forward to rifle through the clothes, coming up with my monogrammed handkerchief. He presses it to his face and snuffles softly, then removes it and examines the results.

"Any blood?"

He shrugs dismissively. "Not much. "

I close my eyes and let out a long breath. The mattress is lumpy, but I can't bring myself to care.

"You going to sleep?"

I open my eyes to glare at him. "Damn right I'm going to sleep. Why don't you join me?" As soon as I hear the words I feel my face redden, but he doesn't seem to notice the implication.

He shakes his head and touches his jaw carefully. "I don't think I can."

"How much longer till you can take some more of that codeine?"

He fishes the little bottle we got at the drugstore out of his pocket and peers at the label in the dim light. "Says one tablespoon every four hours, or as needed." He glances at me with a crooked smile. "That kind of leaves things open to interpretation, don't you think?" He twists the cap off the top and takes a healthy swig.

When we were kids, Sonny used to steal cough syrup out of Mama's medicine cabinet and replace it with food coloring. He got the idea the winter the rest of us all had the flu at the same time. Fredo nearly died of it. Sonny didn't catch it; I've never known him to be sick a day in his life. But I remember him sneaking into my room after Mama went to bed and nipping from the bottle of Doctor Marlowe's Patent Cough Remedy she'd left on my nightstand. I was too miserable to care why he was doing it at the time, but later I used to drink it with him sometimes, under the stairwell or in the cellar. I hope codeine makes Michael as numb as it made us.

Since there doesn't seem to be anything I can do for him, I decide to try to relax. I guess I did a good job of it, because the next thing I know I'm waking up.

The overhead bulb's out, but something's shining in my eyes anyway, and I have to squint to make out my brother's outline silhouetted against the bright moonlight streaming through the window. The sheet's been pushed aside, and he's perched awkwardly with one hip on the narrow sill, looking out into the night. A perfect target.

"Michael?" My voice comes out in a sleep-ridden croak. "What the hell's the matter with you? Get away from that window."

He turns his head toward me, but at first he doesn't speak. I can't see his face at all with the light behind him, and for just a heartbeat, just a dreamlike instant, I find myself wondering who he is.

Then he says, "Tom, I want you to stop telling me what to do."

He sounds perfectly serious, speaking in that soft, mild tone he always uses when he really means what he's saying. Sometimes it's hard to believe he's Sonny's brother.

I'm so surprised I stammer. "I'm -- I'm just trying to take care of you."

He slides off the sill and comes toward me. I can't help flinching just a little as he sits down on the edge of my mattress, his thigh brushing mine.

"I don't need it anymore, Tom. Not the way you do it, and not the way Sonny does it. Even Freddie treats me like..." His voice trails off, and he looks away.

"Mike, I -- we worry about you."

He's silent for a long moment. Then he says softly, "I know. But it's different now. Everything's different now. You're still my brother, and I love you. But Tom, don't ever tell me what to do again. Give me all the advice you want, but don't tell me what to do. I'll do what I have to, and it won't be your decision to make. Or anyone else's. You understand?"

I nod, slowly. "Yeah. Okay." He's making me nervous, but it's no use asking him what he's talking about. If he wanted to tell me, he'd have already done it. I've never known anyone so good at keeping a secret.

He touches my hand. "I don't mean I don't need you anymore, Tom. You sure got me out of a jam tonight. We all need you, now more than ever. Sonny needs you bad, no matter what he says. You have to keep him steady, keep him from flying off the handle completely. Right now, you're the only one who can do it."

I'm far from certain I can do it.

"All you have to do is what you've always done. You're our anchor, Tom."

All I have to do is what I've always done. Only right now I have to do it without the old man. And if he dies...

Michael's voice drops to a whisper. "And you know how I feel. You've always known how I feel. Some things never change."

I clear my throat, to loosen the knot in it. "How's your jaw?"

He picks up my hand and brings it to his face, cupping it lightly, carefully, over the injury. "Feel," he says.

I do. I feel the rounded swelling, the heat of the fevered flesh, the frightening looseness. I feel the roughness of his early-morning stubble, and the softness of the skin beneath. I feel the gentleness of his lips as he turns his face and kisses my palm.

He looks back at me and smiles. He doesn't let go of my hand, and I don't want him to. Some things never change.

"Same old Tom," he murmurs, and runs his fingers over the back of my hand. I close my eyes and hear myself sigh.

"You've been on the wagon," he says. "Haven't you?"

He doesn't have to explain what he means. It does feel like an addiction. I don't drink a lot anymore, or take pills to sleep or pills to stay awake. I don't play the numbers or bet on horses; that's a sucker's game and there's no charm in it when you know how it's run. But every man's got a weakness. And like anything else that's habit-forming, some guys can take it or leave it and not care much one way or the other. I'm looking at one now.

And some guys can't even touch it without going under.

"Yeah, I'm on the wagon. And I'm staying on it." I wish I could have put a little more force behind the words.

To my surprise, he nods matter-of-factly and releases my hand. "You're faithful to your wife. I admire that. Loyalty's the finest quality a man can have. Nothing else is worth a damn without it." He pauses, and looks past me into the darkness. "It's funny how you think you know a thing like that, that you've understood it all your life, but you don't really. You only know it in your head, you know? And then something happens that makes you really feel it."

I lay a hand on his knee. "Mike, he knows you love him."

He sits silent, face averted, for so long I start to wonder if he heard me. Then he turns his eyes to mine. "You think so?"

"Hell, yes. He's never doubted that."

"I've hurt him. I've hurt him a lot, Tom." He pauses. "But I won't do it again. Not ever again."

I squeeze his knee gently, and try not to notice how good it feels. "Try to get some sleep, Mike. You need it. Has the codeine helped any?"

His pensive expression dissolves into a faint smile. "Yeah, I'm about half-lit, it feels like. Nice."

"Sure, that's why you've been talking this way." I suppress a sigh of relief. "Now just lie down and go to sleep. Don't try to talk any more."

"There you go again, ordering me around." He places a hand on my belly, just below the navel. "Thought I told you not to do that."

With difficulty, I keep my eyes from drifting shut at his touch, but I can't keep the strain out of my voice. "Sorry. I'll try to do better."

His fingertips dip ever so slightly beneath the elastic waistband of my boxers, and I know he can feel my ragged intake of breath.

His voice is very soft. "My mouth's pretty messed up, but I have two good hands, Tom."

I can't answer him in words, can't even formulate an answer in my head, but then I don't have to. He can feel the answer.

With casual efficiency, he lowers the front of my shorts far enough to let my cock spring free. He gathers me into his warm hand and strokes slowly down the length, and I turn my head and squeeze my eyes shut and throw an arm across my mouth to muffle the sounds I know I'm going to make.

He could finish me in seconds, if he wanted to, and I'm sure he knows it. It's been years since he's touched me, since any man has, and I feel like a lit firecracker. But he doesn't. He goes slow, easy, loose. I shift restlessly on the mattress. It feels like a woman's touch, and I don't mean a whore. He knows better than that. God help me, I _taught_ him better than that.

I open my eyes and see him watching me with a thoughtful, musing expression. He's waiting on me, I know it. Seeing how long I can hold out before I beg.

I'll be goddamned if I will.

I grab his hand in my right, closing my fist over it and arresting its lazy motion. For a moment we stare into each other's eyes, me with what I hope is a punishing glare, him with something that I'm very much afraid is mild amusement.

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay. Turn loose."

I do, my hand cramping as it falls away. And he takes me in a grip that's so tight, so perfect, and pumps me so fast, so hard, that I have to sink my teeth into my own arm to keep from yelling. I come harder than I have in a long time, except in dreams. And the dreams are usually about him.

When I can focus my eyes, I see him carefully folding the handkerchief I gave him earlier. Well, he wouldn't want his clothes to get splattered.

I run a hand up his thigh. "Let me..."

He shakes his head and smiles, tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket. "I'm okay." Gently, he pushes my hand away and stands. It's warm in the room, but I feel cool air rush into the space he vacated.

I watch him walk to the window and pull the curtain shut. It's suddenly very dark and I don't have to worry anymore about the look on my face. I hear a rustle of clothing, and the creak of springs as he settles under the blankets on the other mattress. Then everything is quiet but the sound of breathing, mine heavy and gradually slowing, his light and even and calm.

I'm still staring into the darkness when he says suddenly, "I love you, Tom. I hate to see you torture yourself. We're family, and we help each other, that's all. That's all it is. We take care of each other. Always remember that. No matter what happens, that's the only important thing."

He doesn't seem to expect an answer, and I can't think of one anyway.


End file.
